


Inked: Aftershocks

by PoppyAlexander



Series: Johnlock ficlets [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Sherlock's Secret Tattoo, is making John crazy with lust, seriously they're doing it all day every day and all over town
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-05-05 10:06:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5371307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"his name, his, inside the mouth of this mad, this beautiful, this ingenious, this fascinating man."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inked: Aftershocks

Of course, once John discovered the purple-black tattoo hidden inside Sherlock’s lush bottom lip—four letters, in Sherlock’s chemistry-student-precise block printing, _**JOHN**_ —he became a bit obsessed with it.

The first few days were filled with questions, “How long have you had it?” “Who did it?” “How much did it hurt?” “Wasn’t it hard not to fiddle with it while it was healing?”

"Just… _why_?”

It was the strangest combination of deeply touching and plain fucking sexy. Him, his name, just his simple name, John, was now and forever imprinted beneath Sherlock’s skin. He was  _inside Sherlock’s mouth_ , for god’s sake, it was bloody gorgeous. Too long thinking about it (he couldn’t not think about it…for weeks he thought about constantly, endlessly) and his cock would thicken with desire, he would look at Sherlock mucking with his phone, or pacing the flat with his dressing gown open, or lying beside him in bed reading a book in French, and John would just  _need_  to see it.

He would nestle himself up against Sherlock’s taut body, pull him in close by a hand on his arse or the back of his thigh, let the tips of his fingers wander over Sherlock’s cheek, his chin, those lips (those unholy, obscene, perfect lips), sometimes kiss him—not deeply, not yet at least—then hook his thumb in and  _pull_  and  _tug_  and  _sweep_ , and reveal his name sunk into the pink meat of Sherlock’s mouth, and just seeing it embedded there stirred something in him that was low and growly and grimy with earth and he would make a  _sound_ , and he would moisten his own lips with his tongue-tip and then he would  _lick_  his name, his, inside the mouth of this mad, this beautiful, this ingenious, this fascinating man.

John

    was _inside_

_Sherlock’s_

_mouth._

And Sherlock would submit to all this with something like amusement in his eyes—had he known this would be the effect?—and his fingers would rake up the back of John’s neck, up through his hair. Or he would clamp John’s hipbones beneath his hands and pull him close, and rock their bodies against each other, Sherlock’s prick answering in kind to the change in John’s scent, the sound of the groan in his throat, the urgent way he clutched and prodded and nuzzled and sucked.

As weeks passed, John began to notice a nearly imperceptible movement of Sherlock’s tongue behind his ever-so-slightly parted lips, from his left to his right, a little swipe across his lower teeth: Sherlock was  _tasting_  him. Sherlock was  _licking_  him. Sherlock was learning every ridge and loop and corner of  _John_ with the tip of that cunning, cutting—frankly acrobatic—pink tongue of his. This would send John nearly frantic with lust, naturally at all the most inopportune moments, and he was thankful for long winter jackets and file folders and carrier bags full of used LPs, because the intensity of his desire for Sherlock at those moments would have been plain for anyone to see, and not only on John’s face, or in his eyes (though he was sure it showed there, just as plainly).

In those weeks after John had first seen his own name slipping out of view beneath the oozing crown of his cock, they’d fucked in every room of the flat—fast, hard, grunting, urgent, yeah, oh yeah,  _fuck_ , yeah like that, like that, just like that yeah, _jesus, Sherlock!_ —once in a storage closet, once in an alley (Sherlock waved to a CCTV camera on his way back out to the street, while John was still buttoning up). They’d broken the towel bar in the bathroom. Again.

"You knew," John said, shaking his head, catching his breath after yet another go-round inspired by this aching-electric twinge in John’s head whenever he thought about it,  _his name_  inside Sherlock’s bitten, suck-bruised lip. “You knew this would make me… _crazy_.”

Sherlock half-smirked. “I promise, I didn’t.”

"I imagine I’ll get used to it, eventually, and…settle down."

"See that you don’t."

Sherlock licked his lips.


End file.
